Darger on the Battery, or "Radio Waves are Alive!"

The little girl daydreaming in this photo sits on a rock on 'The Rock,' Newfoundland. She spends her bleached days under a bakeapple tree in the Battery, overlooking The Narrows between the natural Harbour of St. John's, and the open Atlantic. Not far from her perch, Marconi received the first wireless Transatlantic signal, a repeating beep representing the letter 'S.' Marconi was told many times that it would be impossible, yet, on December 12th 1901, the signal sent from Poldhu, Cornwall in the UK reached Marconi's receiver on Signal Hill.

What strikes me about this little dreamer from the Battery is that she looks exactly like one of Henry Darger's gender defying Vivian Girls, the warrior innocents that populated his Realms of the Unreal, fighting dragons, insects, and adults in the paintings and novel found in Darger's Chicago apartment after he died. The little Vivian Girl from the Battery has left her fictional realm to guard The Narrows where the open, unknown, and undefined realm of the impossible meets the Harbour of what is known, accepted, safe, and predictable.

What we live with today is not all we will ever be stuck with. As my friend Chris Korte often says, quoting the late Zoe Lund, "That which is not yet, but which ought to be, is more real than that which merely is." Or as Herbert Marcuse put it in One Dimensional Man, "...the artistic universe is one of illusion, semblance, Schein. However, this semblance is resemblance to a reality which exists as the threat and promise of the established one." Like this Vivian Girl, and the radio signal that reached the hill behind her in 1901, the impossible things the dreamer sees eventually come to life, interrupting the course of the world we know.

"Are you man enough to be a woman?"

Recently, NME blogger Rae Alexandra asked, "What Happened to All the Ferocious Female Punks?" Joel Gibb, Chris Korte and I were asking the same question recently over a casual cup of tea with the artist G.B. Jones.

A living legend, G.B.'s work has been compared to Tom of Finland (with female cops instead of bears) and was a member of the proto-riot grrl band Fifth Column. She has recently returned to music with the band Opera Arcana, with Minus Smile from Kids On TV and Julie Faught of the Pining.

Between G.B., Joel, myself, and Chris, (a curator who has performed with Norwegian opera creators Vinge and Muller), we thought up a seemingly endless list of amazing women in bands from the 80s and 90s- Chris noted Siouxsie Sioux, Exene Cervenka, Belinda Carlisle (who wore garbage bag dresses before superstardom) and Grace Jones, Joel mentioned the L7 tampon incident, and GB told us stories about the Toronto music scene in the 1980s, which, among other things, was home to Carol Pope, Canada's first (out) lesbian popstar. We also sang the praises of Frances McKee of The Vaselines, and Bikini Kill. And it wasn't long ago that the amazing genderqueer presence of artists like Divine and Jayne/Wayne County demanded of audiences "Are you man enough to be a woman?"

Compare that to the situation today, and it seems like apart from wispy folk and eccentric but non-threatening electro, there's not as much of a female presence as there was ten years ago. We have MIA, we have Peaches, but for the most part righteous anger seems to be taking a nap.

While NME blogger Alexandra partly blames the popularity of Suicide Girls for the dearth of angry women on the proverbial mic, there seems to be a deeper root to this regressive wave in music. I hate to be repetitive, as I recently blogged about cultural devolution that has seen the unapologetic and/or unthinking sexism rise like Phoenix from the ashes of the PC 90s, but it's a topic that won't go away.

It's time to take inspiration from the best of the past- not for nostalgia, but for illumination. The following clip is a love song, but let's think of it as a love song for a revolutionary moment, one we just need to get back to. In the spirit of optimism, here's "Right Back Where We Started From", by Maxine Nightingale.

Maybe she was just well raised

On Saturday night at the Opera House I had a memorable encounter with the monitor person, Chantal. Chantal joined my friend John Power and I for fries before the Hidden Cameras gig, and she was concerned about overhearing an intimate conversation. We assured her that, as the monitor person, she was already intimate, and would be the one guarantor of a smooth performance, so it was in fact best for her to know us better. Not only did Chantal do an excellent job on the monitor mix, she also helped us out with a linguistic quandary that had me stumped for at least ten years.

I was chatting with John Power about whether being a faghag is a genetic predisposition. Being a faghag isn't really a choice. Some women just adore gay men, and are equally adored by the gay men they encounter. It's only right and natural. The only bad thing about it is the word itself- 'faghag' just doesn't sound like a nice thing, even though it represents a beautiful reality.

In support of my foolish and dangerous genetic theory, I gave John and Chantal the example of one particular faghag who is the daughter of another faghag. "Maybe she was just well raised" offered Chantal.

Chantal couldn't be more right. Not only is it a terrible thing to assume that people are totally determined by their genes, and by their biology, "well raised" is also a way better term for the Liz Taylor/Madonna phenomenon. The Madonnamenon, if you will.

From now on, this blog will retire that old, dated term that has its roots in the fear of strong, single women, and the prejudice that women should confine themselves to coupledom, rather than deeply intimate nonsexual friendships. A woman who loves gays, a woman who gays love- she is just well raised.

And just to make things crystal clear, while this blog entry is fixed on the death of an exclusive, restrictive word, BB loves all LGBTQ people, and will always love all LGBTQ people, until the sun goes supernova and rains glitter on the dusty remains of the world.

Yours,
BB

A ballad of survival against all odds

Truth is stranger than fiction, especially along the St. Lawrence River, and for people born in towns around its tributaries.

Here is a link to a song of ours about a man from Alexandria, a little town at the North end of Glengarry County, Ontario. He moved out West to work in mining, and had a few unfortunate encounters, the worst of which was with a wrench that fell from high enough above to break through his helmet, and into his brain.

I often try to imagine what must have been going through his head, besides blood and metal, when he was at the bottom of the mine, refusing to die. Maybe the thought of unfinished business, or unresolved matters of faith, kept him going.

Here is "El Dorado"

The footage is from a live performance at The Dakota Tavern in October. The musicians include one of Newfoundland's delicious exports, the rhythm section of Jon Hynes on bass and John Power on drums; the prairies are represented by Saskatchewan's Shaun Brodie on acoustic guitar, and Alberta's Holly Andruchuk on the electric. I'm the one accidentally channeling Jello Biafra. The photo above is of Jon and John.

Thanks to John's excellent drumming, I have to recant the earlier commitment to the 'play only what you can carry' rule. Nobody is an Island, so I guess the rule is now 'play only what we can carry together.' Together we can carry a whole drum kit.

We will be playing a string of dates with some friends from out West in the new year, so stay tuned, as details will soon be posted. Though it has yet to be confirmed, I must confess I've already been using Skype to rehearse a Hank Williams duet with one of said friends, for said dates. Which tune? Which towns? All will be revealed in due time.

Thanks for stopping by. I hope to see you face to face before long!
Love,
BB

A love song, or a moritat, for a stray cat

Bragging about being tough and dangerous has a long tradition in music. There is the moritat- a murder ballad of a dangerous character and his amazing misdeeds- Stagalee, Staggerlee, Tom Dooley, Magali, or one of the most famous examples, the Moritat vom Mackie Messer- Mac The Knife from Brecht and Weil's Threepenny Opera. But at what point did the "I'm so tough," rather than "he's so bad" version of the moritat come to dominate popular song?

When I was young, and even more lost than I am now, I heard a rumor that Bo Diddley is Jesus. He would never have said that of himself, but he did spend a lot of time explaining his fighting skills, his gunslinging ways, and even if he didn't originate the art of bragging about one's toughness, Diddley took it to a whole new level, when he bragged about having a chimney made from a human skull. In Bo Diddley, the murder ballad became something new; when Bo posed as a gunslinger for the album of the same name, an entire alter ego of danger was born. Hank Williams also transformed the murder ballad from mere song into a way of being, and resorted to recording under the pen name Luke the Drifter to release the spiritual songs that clashed with the popular image of a man adrift on the lost highway.

But whether it's Luke the Drifter or Bo Diddley the Gunslinger, cries of "get away, I'm dangerous" often have a tinge of 'wounded cat' about them. You know that cat- it very slowly moves into your house, into your heart, and one night you wake up to find it peacefully sleeping on your chest.

Here is a little tribute I wrote to wounded cats. Holly and I performed it as a twosome the other night at the Gladstone, at the Blocks Recording Club night:

"Suitcase Full of Trouble"

After our set, dreamy Michelle McAdorey played with a band that included Eric Chenaux and Ryan Driver, then The Phonemes took the stage. Magali was backed by John Tielli on kick drum, guitar and theremin, and Stephanie Markowitz on vocals and keys. Magali's new songs are amazing, and the Stephanie and John lineup brings out the other worldly quality, as well as the beat, in Magali's songs. I'm looking forward to the next Phonemes record with anticipation.

Now I'm off to see if that old stray cat is on the front steps again.

We're playing a gig on Thursday!

On Thursday, November 26th Betty Burke will be playing a gig at the Blocks Recording Club night at the Gladstone, with The Phonemes and Michelle McAdorey. With Shaun Brodie and John and Jon (the amazing Newfoundlanders who played rhythm at our last two gigs) away on tour, this show will feature Maggie and Holly as a twosome, ripping it up. "Revolution girl style now!!"

It's been a while since the last blog entry, so there's a backlog of things to address, such as the growing "no pants" phenomenon in pop music, the need for The Kingdom III to be released to the public in some manner, and upcoming gigs with bands that have been silent for years but never really broke up. Now is not the time to address these topics, the wind just isn't right, so I'll sign off with the conversation incomplete, in the hope that a small nagging suspense might grow behind your eyes, leading you to check in again sometime in the future.

xoxo

El Dorado's ghost on a Port Hope pier

My friend Magali and I recently took a Sunday drive to Port Hope, Ontario, to see what we could see. We met some artists, and stumbled on an excellent independent bookstore, which I was compelled to write about for an upcoming issue of Broken Pencil. But there was something I saw in Port Hope I didn't mention in the article- the ghost of El Dorado.

As well as luring a few lost souls through the jungle, and inspiring songs and art, the mythical city of gold once lent its name to a Canadian mining company.

Twenty years ago I paid a visit to the Canadian War Museum in Ottawa, and I had to ask the staff why there was no mention of the bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki in the World War II exhibit. I was told that Canada hadn't been involved "in that." But the uranium used to make the bombs was refined by El Dorado in a warehouse on a pier in Port Hope Ontario, and today you can walk along that pier on a Sunday afternoon and cast your line into the lake to fish.

Here is a picture of Magali by the fence on the pier, maintained by Cameco, the company that took over El Dorado in the 1990s. The barrels in the shot contain wastes from Cameco's operations, and the little black trefoil symbolizing radiation is stamped on each one.